We Make A History, A Tale of Pain
by nothing-rhymes-with-ianto
Summary: People forget that Ianto was at Canary Wharf. Especially Gwen. Emotions come to a head when Ianto shows Gwen some old Torchwood personnel files and Gwen tells him to cheer up.


_This was supposed to be a drabble for the prompt "gerascophobia." It kind of got away from me and became a full-fledged fic._

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><p>"I found this box, Ianto. It was in the hallway near the storeroom. I—"<p>

"Ah, I was wondering where this'd got to. Thank you, Gwen."

"What is it?"

"Various summarized records of former Torchwood staff." He place the box he'd taken from Gwen on the table and opened it. "I was in the middle of bringing it up here when we got a call."

"Can I see?"

Gwen peered into the box as Ianto removed the lid and began flipping through the yellowed folders. He held up a photograph.

"Who's that?"

"Greg Bishop. He worked here in in the 1930s and 40s. Disappeared in 1941, he was never found. It's believed another Torchwood operative was manipulated by an alien and killed him."

"But he's so young! He only looks twenty-three or so."

"Yes, well…" Ianto let his statement hang, and tucked the photograph back in the folder. Another few flips and he pulled out another photo. This was a young woman with brown hair and a sharp, ruthless expression.

"She is?"

"Alice Guppy, Torchwood operative in the early 1900s. Second in command. Worked along side her lover, Emily Holroyd. They were notorious for being brutal when it came to anything alien. She died at twenty-nine, in 1910 while in service to Torchwood. Killed on a case by an alien who wanted revenge for a relative or fellow soldier. Something like that. The records aren't too thorough."

The photograph went back in the folder, and Ianto's long, slender fingers flipped easily through the files. Gwen could see he was ignoring the ones that did not have photographs paperclipped to the inside.

"Rhydian Ithell. Receptionist for Torchwood in the 1940s, before they occupied the Basin. Killed in action in 1948. Also twenty-three years old."

"And the last one?" Gwen pointed to the only other file in the box with a photograph.

She could tell now that whoever had done this had been trying to make archiving easier, but had only picked random employees to file. Ianto plucked the photograph from the folder and placed it on the table. He'd barely glanced at any of the files, and yet he still knew nearly everything about the former operatives.

"Maya Greenbank. Torchwood operative in the late 20th century. She was mostly a tech operative, but she was out on the field a lot as well. Killed, like the rest of her team, by their leader in 1999. She was twenty-four. She'd been working there less than a year."

"How do you know all this?"

"I work in the archives. I read the files."

Gwen frowned and gestured helplessly at him with one hand. "You know all their ages at death."

"It's hard not to, with a job like this. It's not unusual, anyway."

"You always talk like that, Ianto. Lighten up already, will you? It's like you're terrified of growing old, or convinced you won't! It can't be that bad, really. That was years ago!"

Ianto's face sharpened suddenly, and he turned on her, emotionless mask peeled back so that all at once she could see the yawning darkness within him, the broken and hurting man inside, traumatized and pained.

"Do you really think Canary Wharf was years ago, Gwen? Do you really think Canary Wharf was 'not that bad?'"

"Ianto, I didnt— I forgot—"

"You told me to lighten up, Gwen. You forget that I know firsthand that Torchwood operatives die young. I witnessed the mass slaughter of my friends and coworkers. I heard them all around me as I waited in line."

"Ianto, please—" In his face she could see gaping wound left from the ugliness he'd seen and terror he'd felt. His eyes were haunted, shadowed by memories of those he'd lost and ghosts that plagued him. When he looked at her, his eyes were cruel and tortured, black with the history of too many deaths inside them and she shivered under his gaze.

"I heard the saws and I smelled the blood and fire and the fear. I watched as they pressed metal plates into my girlfriend's skin and drilled into her head as she screamed. I pulled her out of there when the Cybermen went away and I dragged her back here even though she begged for death and told me that she was burning up from the pain."

Ianto couldn't stop. The pain he had endured hadn't killed him on the outside, but he knew that inside his mind was a black pit of tar, sucking everything in and gathering pain. The anger had been simmering since the first time she'd told him to cheer up, since she'd brushed Canary Wharf aside or pretended that everyone was going to be fine.

"I put Suzie's body in the morgue. Twice. And before that, I put Nathan's body there. He was second before Suzie came. Only twenty-two. Worked here for eight months before he was killed. I clean up your shit. All of it. Who do you think gets rid of the bodies of victims? Who plants false crimes and murders and kidnappings for people who've been killed by aliens? I do. I've seen more death in the last five years of my life than most people have in their entire lives, so don't tell me to lighten up and don't tell me it's not that bad and don't try to delude yourself that you or any of the rest of us are going to live past thirty-five."

His expression turned inward, then, and suddenly he looked ancient, weary, damaged, and Gwen could see everything his past had done to him. She nodded once, tears filling her eyes, and whispered "Sorry," though she knew apologies wouldn't do any good and certainly wouldn't negate the hurt she'd caused. She backed out of the room, shamefaced.

Ianto crumpled, then. His whole body sagged and curled in itself as if in pain. Then he straightened, sliding the mask back into place, ever the strong and stoic one.


End file.
